Most afternoons in the Elysian Valley, or Frogtown as some locals call it, you’ll probably catch a lady selling bowls of Mexican street corn at the intersection of Ripple and Newell. The nasally honk of her dime-store bicycle horn beckons like a siren song. It’s a welcome interlude to the relentless hum of car engines and rolling wheels that spill over from the nearby freeway.
Potential corn customers shuttle in and out of the neighborhood. Some return from work. Others transport children to and from after-school programs and soccer practice and karate class.
Further up on Newell, in a shady spot on the other side of the 5 underpass, a fruit and drink stand tempts the motorists on Riverside Drive as they pour in to access an on-ramp. Deliciosas Frutas y Frescas the sign reads. But not today.
Today the sun has boiled away all remnants of routine. Today the parents and the vendors and the volunteers have all forsaken their posts. A dozen miles to the northwest the largest wildfire in Los Angeles history rages through La Tuna Canyon and every man, woman, and child in the L.A. basin can smell it. Today Frogtown is Ghost Town.
On a day such as this my preference is to sprawl out on the couch. I will vegetate for hours, half-naked with the A/C set to Antartica, binging through season 3 of Narcos or whatever else has just come out on Netflix. Except I can’t. I need to get changed. I need to put my shoes on. I need to take Milo out for his midday constitutional before Christina and I brave rush hour to Long Beach for my niece’s birthday dinner.
Milo, as you probably surmised, is a dog. A small dog, at that. This means he’s utterly dependent on us for basically every aspect of his existence.
For Milo a walk is more or less the greatest thrill of his life. And his excitement for the ritual never wains, no matter how often it repeats.
Milo, it seems to me, cares only about what’s happening in the present moment. He lives in the now, paying attention to his surroundings in the most deliberate sort of way. I envy his approach, along his vest for living. But not today.
Even Milo is educated enough to know the dangers of sun-baked concrete on puppy paws when the temp hits triple digits. He squirrels away as I attempt to strap on his harness. This is one of those rare occasions when a dog and his human agree. It’s just too hot for this shit.
Steamy air wraps itself around my face like cellophane as I open the door to the world. Milo takes two steps and is already panting. Sweat beads on my forehead. My armpits are saunas.
We shuffle over to a corner diagonal from the local community center. I hug tight to a hedge that shields the sunlight from my eyes while the terrier sniffs around for a suitable patch of dirt to irrigate. This is when I spot the boy.
He’s 12 years old, give or take, wearing exactly nothing more than a pair of basketball shorts and some dirt-stained sneakers. And he’s chasing something.
It’s a tumbleweed, I think. A big, hairy, monstrous tumbleweed that looks like it’s been doused in soot. Four crooked branches bend and flail as wind the bounces the dangling dark mass back and forth between parked cars on either side of the street. Except that’s no tumbleweed. It’s a raging mound of black scruff. A mutt. And it moves like Barry Sanders.
The adolescent does his best to tackle his target but the tailback-mongrel is simply too elusive. The little beast jukes and jives and snarls, gracefully avoiding the boy’s outstretched arms several times before eventually settling on a straight-line route and shifting into an all-out gallop. I swallow hard. I see now that the ball of knotted fur is headed straight for us. The boy sprints close behind.
I tug at Milo’s leash and pull him closer. Best to move along now before we have an uncomfortable rendezvous. Except then I hear something from down the street. A tire crushing dried leaves.
I pivot 90 degrees and see a midnight BMV has just banked a right on Ripple. The vehicle accelerates at a pace that announces, “These speed humps definitely need to be repaved!”
I look at the kid and the dog, then the car. My eyes narrow. I do the math. These lines are intersecting.
People say that when tragedy is imminent everything slows down, but not this time. For me it’s the blink of an eye and the beamer is inches from the point of no return. I should probably do something.
What I can do, all I can do really, is take one giant, lurching step off the curb.. My left arm goes up like a mailbox flag. My palm pushes out in the universal sign for “STOP.” My cheeks tense as I brace for what happens next. And then…
Fur grazes the bumper as the beamer jerks to a stop. The fleabag whizzes by at top speed, his pursuer only steps behind. Both are completely obviousness to anything but the chase.
The man in the black sedan rolls down his window and mutters something obscene but the boy is already beyond earshot. It takes a moment, but the driver collects himself, shakes his head and let’s out one long breath. Anger becomes gratitude. He pokes his head out the car and looks at me.
“Thanks man… there’s no way… there’s no way I would’ve seen him without you,” his eyebrows curve into soft brown arches. “Have a good day.”
“You too,” I nod at him as he rolls his window up and drives off, this time much more slowly than before.
The boy, successfully having claimed his prize, jogs back towards his house with the furious dog in his arms. Not so much as glance in my direction.
I snicker.
When I get back inside I tell Christina about the incident. I take care to emphasize my heroic part in the whole ordeal. How I raised my hand up and basically froze the car in its tracks like I was Magneto or something. I should definitely be in the next X-Men movie.
We laugh.
A week goes by and I think more about the nature of heroism. About heroic acts.
I reflect on the the firefighters battling the blazes up in the canyon. I watch T.V. reports about the the first responders rescuing stranded hurriance survivors. I read a harrowing remembrance of 9/11 on the forthcoming anniversary of the terrorist attack.
Heroism, it occurs to me, is something that requires equal measures of courage and sacrifice. If you’re not risking anything of value, what’s the virtue? You have to do more than cash in a winning lottery ticket that was handed to you by a stranger.
I will say this for myself, however: At least I was paying attention.
Good things usually happen when you pay attention. Important things happen when you pay attention. When you’re actually present in the moment. I should probably do that more often.
It’s a Saturday now. The weather has cooled some and outside Frogtown is back to its normal self. Dogs walk. Kids kick a ball. Corn is devoured. Cars drive with caution to mind all the activity.
Christina and I have just finished marathoning Narcos. The third season was lit.
Milo is curled up on the floor with his favorite blanket. I smile at him.
“You really have this all figured out, don’t you buddy?”
His marbly eyes twinkle as a sliver of sunlight sneaks through the curtains.
I have my answer.
Leave a Reply